Jack Cannon's American Destiny

Rachel Thompson

Monday, December 30, 2013

"From Amazon bestselling author Steve Gannon, a thriller that will keep you up all night . . . but make sure to lock your doors and windows first."

Los Angeles is terrorized by a series of murders. One man can stop the killer: Detective Daniel Kane. But for Kane--devastated by personal tragedy and haunted by a secret that could destroy his family--to do so may cost him everything, even his life . . .

At times chilling, funny, and occasionally brutal, Kane is a nonstop thriller filled with complex characters, surprising twists, and unforgettable scenes. From a political firestorm that sends the investigation spinning out of control to an unexpected, breathtaking climax, Kane will keep you in suspense until the turn of the final heart-pounding page.

Saturday, December 28, 2013

Lusielle waited until the lady and her bodyguard left the room before she stole out of the bed. She stood up slowly, testing both her feet and her balance. The soles of her feet protested slightly as she pressed them to the floor, but then went numb. She tried taking a step.
The jars and bottles crowding the nightstand wobbled when she steadied herself on the table. She spotted an open jar. A quick whiff revealed the presence of cat’s claw, mixed with high quality fats and scented with lavender’s extract and a touch of calendula to ward off the festering. Upon further inspection, she recognized several kinds of aromatic oils to promote quick healing and the laudanum tincture that was most likely responsible for her drowsiness.
The lady’s healers had used nothing but the best ingredients. No wonder her burns were almost healed.
Dragging the linen sheet around her body, she shuffled towards the ornately framed mirror leaning against the far wall. It was a shock to see her reflection in that long, gilded mirror, disheveled, gaunt and half-naked, like a frail, helpless fool.
Lusielle found the sight alarming, because with the exception of the small hand-held mirror her husband used to supervise her when she shaved him, Aponte Rummins refused to allow mirrors in his house. He thought mirrors spoiled women, aiding in the corruption of the feminine virtues he appreciated best—modesty, obedience and humility. Vanity, he’d often said, was a woman’s blight, and he intended to protect Lusielle from the sins it engendered, including pride, arrogance and wantonness.
Ten years she had lived under Aponte’s rule. Ten lost years she would never get back.
Until today, Lusielle had never had the time or the means to examine her body in front of a full-length mirror. Releasing the crumpled sheet, she found her legs too long, her frame too thin and her feet bound in clean bandages. She also spotted a dressing covering her back.
After undoing the knots, the bandages dropped to the floor. Then for the first time she looked—really looked—at her back.
A few crooked welts snaked between her shoulder blades, marking the trail of the lash. Her skin was still red, but it was healing in the spots where the braided whip had broken through. A messy bruise surrounded the mending wound midway down her back. Craning her neck, she spotted the darker pigmentation beneath the bruise, the faint but even outline of what looked like a small pair of butterfly wings imprinted at either side of her spine.
The gods protect her. Her body indeed wielded a mark, just like the lady said!
She suppressed a rush of fear and forced herself to think. Just because she bore a mark didn’t mean that everything the lady and her bodyguard had said was true. Lusielle might come from a modest family, but she was no ignorant wench. She understood that every cauldron cooked a different mix, more so if it entailed the mighty highborn. For reasons she couldn’t yet comprehend, the Lady of Tolone wanted Lusielle gone. Thus the boots and the gold coins.
On the other hand, why stay and run the risk that the lady was right on any count? The most compelling fact supporting the women’s warning was obvious. Her rescuer was a highborn lord. He had no reason to offer Lusielle his protection and no motive to save her life. She could be of no value to him, as she wasn’t highborn and she didn’t command a ransom.
Her husband had repudiated her. Her town had turned her out. Orell had tortured her. The magistrate had condemned her to death. Under the circumstances, it didn’t seem so far-fetched that when it came to her, the grim-gazed lord had no other purpose but sport.
Nothing good could come from staying with these people.
She sensed the danger all around her. Sure, she couldn’t exactly go back home, but staying put offered more risks than advantages. She didn’t understand the Lord Brennus’s actions and she couldn’t even begin to fathom the lady’s motives, but she knew one thing—she had to trust her instincts. She had to leave.
But where could she go?
Lusielle knew she had to have a sound plan if she was going to survive. The last few weeks—no, the last ten years of her life—had taught her a brutal lesson. At sixteen, she had become an orphan and a bride. At twenty-seven, she was equally helpless and sentenced to die.
Despite her best efforts and sacrifices, she was still alone—as helpless, weak and vulnerable as she had been the day her parents died.
She wiped a stray tear from her eye. No more of that. She was done grieving, and she was tired of submitting and conforming.
She was determined to turn disaster into opportunity. To do so, she was going to have to carve out a spot in a world that had thus far refused to make space for the likes of her. She must go to the only place where she might have a chance to survive and maybe even thrive. It entailed a long and dangerous journey with no assurances, and yet it was her best—nay, her only—chance. She just had to figure out how to get there.
Her eyes fell on the money Tatyene had given her, the three gold coins glinting atop the pile of clothing on the bed. They offered a good beginning.
She donned the soft linen shift and put on the ruffled blouse and the brown skirt. She rolled the woolen hose over her bandaged feet and up her legs, then put on her boots, lacing them loosely. Because of her rescuer’s care, she’d had precious time to heal, and thanks to the healers’ efforts, her feet were mostly mended.
No excuses. This had to be done.
A quick look out the window confirmed that the rain continued to fall. She had no choice but to steal one of the oiled leather mantles she found conveniently hanging on a peg. Her eyes fell on the tray of food standing in the corner. Her stomach grumbled. After downing a bowl of broth in one long gulp, she crammed a buttered roll in her mouth and stuffed her pockets with a bunch of grapes and a few slices of ham. She would have to eat the rest on the run.
She went to the door, but hesitated at the threshold. She had a plan and she intended to follow it. But what if this Lord Brennus was simply a nice man, the last one remaining in this cruel, crazy world?
She recalled how well he had cared for her throughout their journey. Had it not been for him, she would surely be dead. Even her lips remembered his kiss’s generosity. After enduring Aponte’s harsh mouth, she fancied she could easily distinguish cruelty from kindness and voracity from honest passion. No, despite the lady’s warning, she couldn’t think of the lord who had rescued her as mean, vicious or brutal.
What if he had seen through the injustice that had befallen her? What if he had been the only person—highborn or not—willing to help her in the face of that injustice?
The risks were too many to ignore and the danger was too real to forget, but the Lord of Laonia had saved her life and even as she fled him, she didn’t have to join the ranks of the ungrateful.
Lusielle retraced her steps and rummaged through the desk. Although there was no parchment in the drawer, she found a quill and a little pot of ink. She jotted down a few words on her unlikely page and then made for the door.
She slipped out of the chamber into the corridor. She had no idea which way to go, but she had to find a way out of the seed house. Voices and lively music echoed from below. A carved stone banister overlooked the main hall. She peeked between the railings.
The Lord Brennus sat on a high-backed chair next to the Lady of Tolone across from a fire roaring in the massive hearth. He sipped from a gilded horn, listening to the lady’s chatter but staring at the fire with a sullen expression.
Lusielle could tell that he had recently arrived from whatever foray he had undertaken as his boots were wet and muddy. He was still wearing his greaves and his muscled breastplates, impressive leather-and-bronze chest armor strapped at the shoulders and embossed with swirling vines.
The music began. The tall, gaunt man who had accompanied the lord during their trip came into the chamber and joined some of the warriors who had ridden with them on the way to Tolone. She recognized their faces from her journey’s hazy memories.
Other people loitered in the great hall, the lady’s servants and retainers, talking, gaming and eating from the trays on the tables. The lady’s fierce-looking bodyguard stood behind her chair. Even the guards wearing Tolone’s colors seemed to linger in the hall, until a couple of them got up and headed for the stairs, reminding each other loudly that it was time to make their rounds.
Lusielle froze as the guards mounted the first few steps. She wasn’t sure, but she thought that the lady had spotted her, hiding behind the railings.
Without delay, the lady rose to her feet and announced that she was going to dance in ringing tones. Every eye in the room fell on the stunning woman, including those of the guards, who paused on the stairs to watch their mistress.
Lusielle crept down the hallway. She didn’t really trust the Lady of Tolone or anyone else for that matter, but she was determined not to waste her best chance to escape.

Award-Winning Finalist in the fantasy category of The 2013 USA Best Book Awards, sponsored by USA Book News

I grew up in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada, as a Cree/Irish borderline Catholic girl, meaning this half-breed rarely went to Mass. However, I did pray every night. I absolutely loved God and believed in Him deeply. Being Catholic, I had heard about Jesus. In fact, my favorite song was “Away in a Manger.” Whenever I was scared, which was often, I would sing this song. But I imagined Jesus to be a fairytale—a fantasy about a perfect God coming to save people. He was just for good thoughts. He was in no way a reality.

Despite my vague belief in Jesus, my relationship with God seemed deep. I would have conversations with my invisible God; I would tell God I loved Him. And I certainly did love Him. Although, I was becoming a bit frustrated with Him because of my dreary life circumstance. You see, my dad drank—a lot. And this stress, along with the stress of my quickly emerging spiritual life, was simply too overwhelming.

As a child I lived with a strange secret. I sensed an ominous yet deeply intriguing spiritual force in my home. I simply assumed a ghost lived in my house. To convolute matters even more, when I was just seven, a man with fire for hair appeared to me in a dream, forcing me to marry him in front of an upside-down cross. He told me in the dream, “Don’t worry, you have been chosen.” From this point on, I completely believed I was married to the devil—irrevocably dark and aligned with evil.

Fortunately, this dream did motivate me to dig my heels in and search for God. I figured only God could get me divorced from the devil. But instead my search led me to Fred, a kind spirit I met in grade four through a Ouija board. Being Cree, spirits were nothing new to me. My mom’s family always talked about spirits. Most of my aunts and uncles were scared of the spirits or ghosts they saw in their dreams and in their houses, but my grandmother told me the spirits were there to help and protect us. I wasn’t quite sure what to believe. I was confused. After all, the spirits I sensed around me and the ones I saw in my dreams scared me, too. But then again, Fred seemed different. This spirit was nice. He was funny. Fred told me through the Ouija board that his job was to protect and watch over me. Eventually, I began telling myself that spirits just felt creepy, but once you got to know them they could be nice. Especially, if you were nice to them.

Fred became my constant companion. But one day, in grade six, after my best friend’s dad tried to molest me and just after my uncle Glen (who had sexually molested me as a small child) came to live with us in our home, I had a nervous breakdown. While left home alone with Glen, I grabbed a butcher knife and ran to my room to hide. Once in my bedroom, instead of picking up my Ouija board to call on Fred, I cried out to God, telling Him I wanted to kill myself. Suddenly I heard a voice speak out loud: “When you are big everything will be okay.” It was God; He spoke to me. He was real.3 I told God I’d hang on until I was big, which obviously, to a twelve-year-old mind, meant eighteen.

By age sixteen, things seemed to have miraculously changed for the better. First of all, my dad was now inexplicably healed from alcoholism. Second, I was introduced by my high school teacher to a New Age transcendental meditation and channeling group that met weekly in the back room of a small bookstore.4 I was so excited. I thought for sure—in this extremely spiritual group—I would find God and get my divorce from Satan.

This group also told me spirits were good and helpful. However, a few sessions later, I found myself strangely altered after my spirit guide Fred, along with another extremely violent spirit, entered my body during group meditation and refused to leave. A member of the group did attempt to help me force these spirits from my body, but the endeavor failed. Consequently, I was kicked out of my New Age group for having bad karma. This meant I was the one attracting these evil spirits to the group—because I was evil. I left the group feeling deeply hurt, misunderstood, and very aware of being “chosen” by the devil.5

A school friend of mine named Doug, who had joined the channeling group with me, then suggested, without knowing anything about my spiritual past, that I study Satanism. His brother had a Satanic Bible.6 After flatly declining, I began dreaming I was killing people. I also dreamed of horrible evil creatures. Rats invading my house was a common dream, and the devil with fire for hair began reappearing in my dreams, growing angrier every time I refused to follow him. When I turned eighteen, I gave up on spirituality. I simply wouldn’t choose Satan and God had failed to show up and save me.

When I was twenty-two years old, now bulimic/anorexic, depressed, and suffering from intense back pain, my life took an unexpected turn when at work God surprisingly spoke to me again saying, “This is the man whom you shall marry.” That man was DJ, a young man who worked in the same office as I did. Eventually DJ and I began dating, and even though we seemed to have nothing in common—because I was convinced that God had sent him to help me—on our third date, I opened up to him, describing to him my nightmares and my spirit guide, Fred. Of course, I worried DJ might consider me crazy, but instead he said, “I’m here to help.”7

It was a few weeks later that DJ opened up to me, explaining how he believed in Jesus. He told me he believed Jesus was alive. He told me Jesus could heal me and save me; and because he was God’s actual Son, he was the gateway to knowing and experiencing God. DJ asked me to simply trust Jesus.8

But I was more than a little doubtful. In fact, his Christian beliefs made me furious. It seemed idiotic for anyone to believe that a childhood fairytale could be true, and it seemed positively arrogant that DJ thought he knew and understood God. After all, why couldn’t God just save me Himself? What did He need Jesus for? Why was Jesus so important? I argued with DJ about the relevance of Jesus many times. Then one night, after arguing about Jesus yet again, my back flared up with pain. DJ asked if he could pray for me. I was uncomfortable with this but thought, What will it hurt?

As DJ prayed for me, particularly when he asked me to be healed “in the name of Jesus,” my back pain sharply escalated—then the voices began. It was just like during my channeling days. Spirits stirred inside me wanting to speak. Except this time they were enraged. As DJ continued praying, my body contorted as my muscles tightened; a low growl came from my lips. Within seconds, a thick black mass pulled out from my back and hovered above us. I remember huddling against DJ, whispering, “What is that?”

“It’s evil,” he said.

I was terrified. DJ, however, immediately told the evil spirits to “leave, in the name of Jesus.” Surprisingly, the blackness retreated back down inside me. I was horrified and confused, crying and shaking. I didn’t understand I was possessed. All I knew was that Fred and another spirit were living inside me; they were angry, extremely strong, and they absolutely hated the name Jesus.

DJ, now with clear confirmation that my problem was actually demonic possession, had to find help, but where was he to go? He wasn’t sure if his church leadership would believe him. DJ then met with a Christian girl, Audrey, who also worked in our office.9 She and DJ decided to bring me to her church. They hoped her pastor could pray for me and expel the evil spirits.10

DJ convinced me to attend a service. However, shortly after arriving at the church, I found myself running from the service after voices in my head told me to kill the pastor. I remember this pastor was preaching about Jesus being able to heal. The whole service felt strange and uncomfortable to me, but DJ convinced me to go back to this church two more times. Each time I returned, the strength and rage of the voices grew and my strange back pain returned. Finally, much too terrorized and confused to go on, I refused to go back. I told DJ talking about Jesus aggravated my problems, so the solution was obviously not to talk about him.

Lance flicked his wrist and checked his watch. Yes, 5:00 p.m. on the dot. With a smile he knocked on the girls’ dorm room door ready to tackle their English study session. Even though they each pursued different majors: Melody, Communications; Imani, Chemical Engineering; and he studied Business; they all made a vow at orientation to align their core Freshmen classes and liberal arts electives whenever possible.

He heard movement behind the door as one of the girls checked through the peephole and then Imani threw open the door.

Lance smiled and landed a peck on her cheek before he strolled inside.

The phone rang and Imani shoved him towards it. “Could you get that? It’s my mom,” she said heading towards the bathroom she shared with Melody and the two girls in the connecting room.

Friday, December 27, 2013

The hours in a day were never enough. Each watch, report, and exam seemed like an organized disruption to Gallant’s desire for food and sleep. Each irreverent “Attention Midshipman Gallant” that blared over his head, called him away to some new obligation. A week after re-qualifying, Gallant joined the other midshipmen in an advanced flight training session conducted by Lieutenant Mather.

Mather was going to review the ship’s computer systems in detail in preparation for a mock combat session. While many of the midshipmen were already up to date on the ship’s AI systems, it was an opportunity for Gallant to catch-up.

Mather stood at the head of the compartment at a lectern facing several rows of chairs. He began describing the Repulse’s computer system, “It’s a marvel of Twenty-second Century technology. It provides three levels of operation for each and every important department on board including: navigation, engineering, weapons, environmental, and communications. The first level is the centralized Artificial Intelligence (AI) system. It performs what we call ‘strong-AI.’ Then, the second level includes system operations of individual departments with their own ‘weak-AI.’ They require more human interaction in order to coordinate systems. Finally, the last level is direct human manual control.”

“Officers, this is the strong-AI system nicknamed GridScape.” A three dimensional humanoid holograph form appeared before Mather. ““The avatar image is changeable,” he flipped through a few before settling on a base form. “I prefer this nondescript image for my lectures. GridScape is a wireless grid computer network consisting of over one million parallel central processors performing a billion-billion operations per second. It helps to control operations throughout the ship and its fighter support within a limited range. It coordinates overall control with our technically trained crew. Of course, it has redundant connectivity for reliability; both direct wiring, as well as wireless connections. GridScape is fully capable of independent automatic operation for most routine operations and many emergency responses that the ship may be required to perform.”

“In the event the strong-AI system is damaged, the weak-AI computer systems take over local functional operation. Of course, every device can be switched to manual operation as required. Also, all crew members have their comm pins. They can connect to local resources that in turn can connect to the centralized AI,” said Mather.

Being a writer, makes one constantly aware of how little people care when reading your book if it is not their cup of tea. Rejection is part and parcel of life. You cannot avoid it. People and their reading ability, their enjoyment of the subject matter, their engagement with your work, is all very subjective. You cannot control people’s feelings. You cannot control their perceptions. Rejection forms a major part of their reaction. How you handle that is how you handle life itself. If you can’t handle rejection then you are in the wrong game. Publishers habitually ignore, dismiss and reject on the basis of nothing more than a whim. Just ask JK Rowling. She needed to beg borrow and steal just to survive. No one wanted to know her. No one wanted to care. It was her own resilience and self-belief that got her through varying levels of rejection.

And it is not always the work that is the problem. It could be the circles you move in. It could be the subject matter is not fashionable. It could be that there is so much content out there that your voice will always struggle to be heard. If you honestly believe that your work is credible then you must believe in the process. Walls are hard to break down. Opinions are difficult to change. Eventually however one person, one voice, one idea will surface to support your work. There is no such thing as an overnight success. Despite what you read. Despite what you hear. There is no fast track to success. To celebrate an achievement, to reach a goal, to deliver on promises, you have to work at it. Nothing comes easy. If it does then you are not trying.

As a writer I can only suggest you soldier on. Never be afraid to learn and always give it your very best shot and then, if people still say no, at least you have tried. Luck is always a major part of the game but I believe you create the atmosphere for that love to manifest itself. If you work at it your ship will come but only if you work at it.

Thursday, December 26, 2013

I was leading a very mainstream life. While I had some sense of purpose, I additionally had an underlying feeling that something was seriously lacking. Even though there was a recognition of incompletion, I can’t say that it was a conscious realization, more of a sense of things not expressed, blocked or segregated.

The previous year I’d left the large government agency where I’d worked nearly my entire career up to that point. Being out from under bureaucratic constraints lent a certain kind of freedom that I craved, but a large part of my livelihood was still generated through that environment where I returned as a consultant. I felt the rigidity of the organization to the point that it triggered an aversion in me.

What I now know is that whenever we have an unreasonably strong response to something external, something is lurking internally of the same nature. At the time, I recognized what I can only describe as flatness, a lack of real engagement to anything in which I was involved. It’s unlikely that this fact was apparent to anyone but me. I was known for my mind and abilities for pulling people and projects together. To others, my guess is that I appeared actively engaged in my life. After all, I was busy doing what needed to be done, just like most with whom I came in contact.

But I knew something was omitted. Fourteen years earlier, I’d had a major signal identifying my disconnection. Because of a viral infection that attacked my thyroid, I became extremely ill. I was likely within a hair’s breadth of death before I’d had any inkling of the seriousness of the illness. It probably was only through my mother’s mother-bear-like, protective attention and demands to the physician I finally visited that I am even alive today.

A major crisis such as this one is often the impetus that will kick start a revelation—or revolution. After my recovery, I finally comprehended the level of absurdity and danger that the lack of awareness of my own condition brought. I was able to discern that I wasn’t practicing denial in the sense of not wanting to face something. But more so, I was disconnected from my body to the degree that I had been unable to recognize my lack of health. How could I? My life and level of consciousness was weighted in my head, cut off from my physicality and any real experience or attunement other than mental observation.

I heeded a cry from my Core Self, not even knowing of her existence, and sought out meditation. That was an unlikely avenue back then, only because where I was living at the time offered very few opportunities to explore anything even somewhat resembling consciousness studies. With the help of a couple of books, I put together a practice to which I remained faithful.

Over the years, I found myself becoming increasingly calmer and healthier. I knew that the change was due directly to my dedicated focus on meditation. Indeed, I became much more in tune with my body and its messages to me. I began to trust those messages implicitly, telling me when things were right, or not, in my world.

But I knew something was still missing. I remained an observer to a large degree, not a participant. While I’d read of spirituality and various states that told of that realm, I’d had no direct experience. I intellectually knew that Spirit was an aspect of my makeup, but couldn’t quite grasp even the concept of such a reality. And yet there was something underpinning my entire existence that called out for this wholeness. Some part of me deeply desired integration.

When strong intent is present, the means to fulfill it will automatically appear. But I didn’t know this truth at that point in my journey. I only knew that I felt somewhat fragmented, and one day noticed an ad in a professional journal for a retreat with a Peruvian shaman to be held in the Southern Utah desert. Ignoring the fact that my sole idea of camping then was in pensions in large European cities, or that I didn’t even know what the term “shaman” meant, I felt a strong draw in my body to call and register. So, I did.

Four months later, I flew cross-country to Salt Lake City where I was picked up with some other retreat goers and driven some hours south to a remote canyon in the San Rafael Swell. The beauty of the area was incredible and helped to overwhelm my uneasiness of being with people with whom I wasn’t acquainted, and an upcoming event about which I knew absolutely nothing.

When we finally rolled into the makeshift camp, I climbed out of the truck feeling a mixture of excitement and apprehension, the two being closely linked anyway. While in this state, I noticed a brown-skinned man making his way toward me. He had dark, wavy hair, a mustachioed, handsome face, and wore a woven poncho. His eyes sparkled. He smiled broadly and wrapped his arms around me in greeting. As he did so, any fear I felt dissipated immediately and was replaced by great warmth swelling from some place inside me, unlike any I’d ever felt. This was the man the sponsors had advertised as a shaman, the person who, in the years ahead, I would come to know not only as a mystic and teacher of the heart, but a cherished friend—Don Américo Yábar. My meeting him was to change the fabric of my entire life. And I had asked for it unknowingly.

Around the campfire that evening, Don Américo introduced the subject of intent through his translator. He encouraged each of us to set our intent that evening for the week that was to follow. I went off on my own to think about what he’d said, the whole idea of intent being a slippery one, at best, that I had a challenge grasping. However, I decided that I must have set my intent, at some level, before I even came. That was what pulled me to the retreat not even knowing what it entailed. I wanted to be joined. I wanted direct engagement. I wanted integration of my mind, body and spirit. I told no one.

The next morning held the usual gorgeous, blue desert sky. The group had hiked some distance from our camp and found a natural rock amphitheatre. We made ourselves comfortable in the shadows of the boulders, out from under the Utah sun which was already getting quite warm. Don Américo began to speak. I don’t remember now exactly what he said. I was being lulled by the lilting rhythms of his and his translator’s vocal patterns that took the meaning of the words to some unconscious level.

Suddenly, he stopped and gazed intensely at me. He motioned for me to come to the middle of the circle where he stood. Under normal circumstances, I would have done so reluctantly, if at all, not being comfortable “exposing” myself to others in that way. In that case, however, I felt completely at ease.

I approached him. He stood directly in front of me only about eighteen inches away, his liquid brown eyes locking onto mine. It was as though he was channeling pure love directly into my being. Both of his hands hovered right outside my body at the chest level.

Making a motion of pulling apart outside the heart center, he said, “The way to see is with the body’s eye.”

I felt what I could only describe as a sweet welling in that energy center that began to undulate, creating a rippling effect.

He moved one hand up to my forehead. Making a wiping motion in my subtle energy field, he proclaimed, “Not the mind’s eye!”

I felt something shut at that level, all the while the heart energy continued to reverberate. I was unaware of anything other than large waves of effervescent warmth that seemed to echo silently, returning from the stones surrounding us, further intensifying the awakening. People seated around us gasped and murmured. I have no idea how long I stood that way. I do not know how I found my feet to return to my seat. I do not recall what occurred the rest of the day.

I was opened. I was filled. I’d had my first direct experience—beyond words.

I’ve often wished I was better with my hands. When I was young I wanted to be a motor mechanic but my friends and relatives talked me out of that. I’m envious of Denise. She has magic hands. For example, she makes exquisite works of mosaic art. If I had the talent I might like to be a sculptor.

Are you a City Slicker or a country lover?

I can cope in the city but I love the country – in particular I love living near water.

How do you feel about self publishing?

In my view, the probability of some mainstream publisher actually publishing a work of seminal importance is pretty low. They don’t tend to take risks. We need to be brutally honest; self publishing has a very low probability of success but the probability of something seminally important coming out of self publishing is probably higher than from mainstream publishing. From a different perspective, one has to do what one is born to do. And if a publisher won’t take your work then go for it! What’s the worst that could happen? You’ll fail. And so?

In today’s digital age it’s more important you have a distributor than a publisher. Just make sure that you have the marketing angle covered and make sure that your book has a unique selling proposition – preferably it should be a shining example of literary originality and excellence in a world of bland sameness.

How important are friends in your life?

Genuine friends? Like gold! Acquaintances? I can take them or leave them.

How many friends does a person need?

Assuming that your spouse is your best friend, which mine is, maybe three or four. Quality trumps quantity every time.

Wednesday, December 25, 2013

Dark Application: ONE is the new technothriller fans are already comparing to the genre's greats. From the creative genius of the Pendergast books from Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child to the techno savvy of Michael Crichton; readers can't get enough. The fast pacing and tight plot control has some comparing it to the Bourne books from Robert Ludlum. What is it about this novel that has fans already clamoring for the sequel?Perhaps it's the plausibility of the technology, the conspiracy, and above all, the unlikely hero. At the center of this new technothriller is Luke Jeffers, a regular guy about to become extraordinary.A college student in Virginia, he finds himself caught up in a technological conspiracy beyond his understanding. Almost overnight, he transforms from starving student to an unwitting pawn in a web of murder, lies, and conspiracy when he discovers the Department of Defense Application for Remote Kinetics, a simple application accidentally downloaded onto his smart phone and almost immediately in control of his life. In a style reminiscent of the best technothrillers of the last three decades, Dark Application: ONE is filled with dark conspiracy, cyperpunk overtones, and above all a mystery at its core critical to Luke's escape from the cycle of destruction. Volume One of the new Dark Application technothriller series by Brian Krogstad and Lindsey Waterman will leave you breathless and desperate for more, grateful that "Volume One" certainly means that more are coming ;)

He told me the street and packing Bethany into the car, I drove through a light snowstorm to find him.

I located the correct 7-11 and I walked in looking around for Nyle.

“Hey, are you looking for that drunk?” The 7-11 clerk asked as he nodded at me.

“Was a guy here waiting for someone?” I asked.

“Yeah, he wanted booze, I told him to leave.”

“Do you know which way he went?” I asked.

“Have no idea.”

Leaving the store and getting back in my car, my hands clenched the steering wheel. I drove around looking for Nyle, scolding myself for coming out in the snow with Bethany in a car that didn’t have snow tires, to look for a drunken soon-to-be ex-husband.

I found Nyle wandering the sidewalk. Pulling over, I rolled down the passenger window.

“Nyle, what are you doing? Get in the car.”

He just looked at me, obviously drunk, confused, and swaying as he tried to keep his balance.

He crawled into the front passenger seat, laid his head back, and closed his eyes. I drove him back to my apartment. Once I parked the car, I realized I had no idea how to get him from there to inside my apartment. It was too cold to leave him in the car overnight, though I did consider it. I looked over at Nyle, and I wondered what the hell I was doing and how I was going to get him to wake up.

After continually pushing on his arm to wake him up, he finally roused awake enough to stumble into my apartment. He immediately staggered over to the couch and collapsed on it. I gently placed Bethany in her crib, gazing at her as she slept. In that moment, I was grateful I was divorcing Nyle and knowing my daughter was safe and asleep, I immediately fell asleep too.

I was still on maternity leave, so I was home the next morning when someone came to get Nyle for work.

“Hey, you need to wake him up,” Nyle’s friend said. He had figured out that Nyle was here when he didn’t show up at the barracks last night.

“I tried, I can’t get him up. I think he’s still drunk.”

“He’s going be in trouble if he doesn’t show up to formation.” Giving up, the guy left.

Walking over to Nyle and pushing on him hard, I said, “Nyle, wake up! GET UP! You have to get up for work!” I felt like I was yelling at a deaf person.

He finally opened his eyes and looked at me with a confused expression. He seemed to be trying to remember how he got to my apartment. He slowly sat up, keeping his hands on the couch for balance. He mumbled something, but it sounded as if his mouth was full of cotton. He stood up and with a shaky walk he made his way to the phone as I watched him call a friend to come get him.

Later that day, as I sat on the couch, in my apartment, I looked at my bills and felt my ongoing fear starting to rise. I began looking at my past choices. At eighteen, I had made the choice to marry and by nineteen, I had made a choice to be a mother. I had stayed with Nyle for fifteen months even though he was drinking and would be violent when he was drunk. I wasn’t proud that I was working at McDonald’s to meet basic financial needs, and I was fearful on a daily basis.

How was I going to fix this? How was I going to survive? Would things ever change? Would I ever be happy? Would I ever earn more than slightly above minimum wage? I didn’t know.

I walked around the apartment while Bethany was napping in her crib. Without Nyle there, the apartment was cleaner and I didn’t fear the weekends anymore. I still had to deal with the holes in the doors and walls at some point.

Out of desperation, the next day, I took my wedding ring to the pawnshop and I was grateful for the cash. It had a couple of diamonds, so they offered me a decent sum of money.

When my mom called to see how I was doing, I told her I had pawned my wedding ring.

“Why did you pawn your ring?”

“I needed the money,” I said, feeling depressed.

“Well, we’ll give you the money to go and buy it back. You don’t want to pawn your ring.” With my parents’ financial assistance, I bought back my ring before it was sold to someone else. But what about next month, when money would once again be tight?

That week, the manager at McDonald’s called to make sure I was still coming back to work when my maternity leave ended.

I told him I couldn’t wait to get back to work and I meant it. I was looking forward to having at least a few dollars in my wallet.

I spent the next couple of weeks getting on a schedule with Bethany and looking for home daycares. I found one near my apartment.

I returned to work, and I happily started earning money again. I was receiving child support, and life began to take on a more routine state, but I was experiencing a lot of anxieties. I still wanted a man to make me feel better about myself. I didn’t understand that I was not giving myself the credit I deserved in being able to love and take care of myself. As a result, I drew in the same types of people and relationships as before.

Not long after returning to work, I ran into Josh, a guy I had briefly dated when I was seventeen years old. We easily picked up where we left off and we quickly became exclusive in our dating.

Initially, Josh was attentive toward Bethany, and we had fun getting to know each other again, but it didn’t take long before we began to fight. We would get into yelling matches that were reminiscent of my relationship with Nyle, always fighting about something that wasn’t even important. We were young, immature and neither one of us knew how to communicate. Still, I was thankful he was in my life when one day out of the blue, I found Nyle knocking on my door.

“Tami, can we talk?” Nyle asked. Standing there waiting for me to say it was okay for him to come into the apartment. His hands were in his pockets and I noticed the tension he held in his shoulders.

“I guess…”

He walked into my apartment and sat down on the couch.

“Tami, I’m sorry. I screwed up.” He paused and then said, “I know I messed up with you….” Nyle’s voice trailed off and I waited for him to continue, not really knowing where this was heading.

He finally continued, “What do you think. Could we try again?”

I looked at him wondering what to say. Despite our fighting, I had strong feelings for Josh and now, here was Nyle apologizing and proposing we try again. As I paused, not sure what to say to him, I looked around my apartment. It was cleaner, and I immediately noticed the still unpatched holes in the wall and doors. I wasn’t sure I wanted to start again and have the same old result of drunken weekends.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea…” I said.

He left without much hesitation. That was my clue that he wasn’t invested in starting over, but maybe just looking for convenience. I knew he never liked living in the barracks on base. Also, I always wondered if his mother had talked him into trying to get back together or if it was all his idea. I knew she wanted me to take care of him.

I had begun to understand that it was never my job to take care of Nyle. That was his job. Although it took me a few years to fully realize that I needed keep my focus on caring for Bethany and myself. Even then I had begun to understand this and that I didn’t need to feel guilty for leaving Nyle.

Sunday, December 22, 2013

Greed can be murder...When a high-flying Wall Street investment banker is found brutally killed, what started out as a simple fraud case turns into expert criminologist Leopold Blake's first ever murder investigation. Now, with the financial world at the brink of collapse, Blake must put aside his differences and work with NYPD Detective Mary Jordan to find and stop the killer before it's too late. As the glamor of Wall Street is stripped away by a series of catastrophic discoveries, Leopold will have to decide how much he is prepared to risk in order to uncover the truth - and whether it's a price he's willing to pay.

The Mile End Mambo1990
He held him in his arms and looked into the glassy eyes. Yellow flecks dotted the cornea. This boy was dead a long time before Roger had run him through. He knew the look. Too much top shelf and not enough down time.
The body from which life dramatically seeped away began to convulse. It would not be a Hollywood death. It would be a harsh demise for this gangster. Unexpected but unavoidable. He had stepped on the wrong toes and nobody touched Roger’s patch.
The big screen had always glamorised death but there was nothing glamorous about having a gaping 12-inch gash where your stomach had once been. Roger’s white shirt was splattered with blood and sputum. He noted to himself with an air of cold detachment that he would have to dispose of it later. The boy soldier’s back arched in agony. A gurgling noise rushed from his throat and then he was gone.
Roger put his arm underneath the boy’s knees and slowly lifted him from the red morass that had filled the doorway. He cradled him in his arms and walked slowly along the pavement. A young couple averted their gaze as he struggled with the limp body. They knew not to look. This was after all the witching hour in the East End. What you don’t see, you can’t tell. He turned the corner and moved into another shop doorway. It was a Dixon’s electrical shop exalting the latest stereos and TV’s.
Roger placed the body carefully on the ground. He took one final look at what 10 minutes ago had been the epitome of arrogance, bravery and youth, then left. He walked quickly to the edge of Walters Street, turned into Burden and darted through a now deserted car park and onto Rially. He saw a red telephone box just up from Dunston Road. He opened the door and tried to ignore the stench of piss and shit. He dialled the number and waited patiently for the connection.
“Rudi?”
His rich baritone West-Indian voice caressed the receiver.
“Yeah, he’s in Dixon’s shopfront on Walters Street.” He paused, digesting the question on the other end of the line.
“Yeah he’s dead. Dead as a door nail. See you at home.”
With that, he hung up the phone and disappeared into the night. His red Rasta beanie swaying as he loped through the shadows. The victim wouldn’t be missed. Roger had nothing to fear. The status quo had been maintained and an example had been made.
Most of all, Rudi would be pleased.

I am a mother of three boys. They keep me very busy with their myriad of activities!

My full-time job is a manager in a large corporation, where I am constantly challenged to be a better leader. I am very fortunate to work with such a great team of people.

My husband is a full-time writer, Glen Krisch. He writes horror and supernatural thrillers, which is quite a departure from my light-hearted romance.

We have a major case of role-reversal in my home. My husband works from home full-time, while I work outside of the home. I am very lucky to have his support in pursuit of my business career, as well as my fledgling writing career.

I am a vegetarian, and have been for more than 20 years. It’s definitely not for everyone. One of our kids claims to be a vegetarian, aside from the occasional corn dog. Another would chase a cow across a field with a knife and fork.

My dream vacation always includes a quiet beach.

I love to craft. I enjoy sewing, knitting, and painting. Our middle son tells me he is going to be an artist when he grows up, so now that I have a partner in crime, I can shamelessly spend money on fabric, paint and whatever else strikes our fancy.

My favorite way to relax is with a cup of tea and my Kindle.

My favorite memories always include my siblings. We have such fun together. In a few weeks, some of us are going on a research trip to a ghost town for Glen’s next horror novel.

I enjoy the outdoors. I love to hike in the local canyons, view the waterfalls, and spot the wildlife.

Friday, December 20, 2013

Two Worlds. Two Species. One Terrifying Secret.

In 2163, a polluted and overcrowded Earth forces humans to search for a new home. But the exoplanet they target, Exilon 5, is occupied. Having already begun a massive relocation programme, Bill Taggart is sent to monitor the Indigenes, the race that lives there. He is a man on the edge. He believes the Indigenes killed his wife, but he doesn’t know why. His surveillance focuses on the Indigene Stephen, who has risked his life to surface during the daytime.

Stephen has every reason to despise the humans and their attempts to colonise his planet. To protect his species from further harm, he must go against his very nature and become human. But one woman holds a secret that threatens Bill’s and Stephen’s plans, an untruth that could rip apart the lives of those on both worlds.

BECOMING HUMAN, part one in the Exilon 5 trilogy, is a science fiction dystopian adventure that you won’t want to put down.

˃˃˃ Thought Provoking SciFi, Dystopian Tale – Compulsion Reads

I would happily recommend this book to fans of dystopia, science fiction and conspiracy lovers. You will be in for an exciting ride.

˃˃˃ Excellent Use of ForeShadowing – Masquerade Crew

This book demonstrates why I read Indie books and have enjoyed doing so immensely. Yes, some self-published books don’t deserve to see the light of day, but this isn’t one of those. Far from it. It was exciting and it had mystery. It sets up the next book while still giving you closure in this one–a difficult task for a book in a series.

Most stories should not start with “it was a dark and stormy night” but this evening in Washington, DC could be described no other way. A great storm was raging, as were key members of Congress and other important figures. The politicians waited in silence staring at a blank satellite screen for the eccentric Chinese President Xi Jinping to appear and discuss the massive debt America owed China.

The group was in the East Room of the White House above the library, where a small window reflected the faces of those who had enough ‘klout’ to sit at the round table with President Obama and Vice President Biden.

It would be any news reporter's dream to sit alongside these political heavyweights, but the “China Task Force” or C.T.F. had made this a closed conference, top-secret event. So secret, even Snowden didn’t know about it.

Even if the White House let the press in, the reporters would not have made it through the heavy downpour in Washington, DC. Visibility in the city was close to zero. Normal traffic ended hours earlier as young and old government employees hunkered down in their favorite bars to weather the storm.

Now, rain poured so hard the echoes of the downpour shot through the White House, giving attention to the awkward silence in the East Room.

As the large teleprompter screen remained blank, an animated Michele Bachmann broke the silence. “I just don’t trust these Chinese, even with their food. My husband ends up having problems with his rectal area after he eats it when I’m away. You should see the fees I pay his proctologist. Thank the good Lord we don’t have ObamaCare or he wouldn’t be able to walk.”

The other members of the C.T.F. remained silent, as most believed Mr. Bachmann to be a closeted homosexual. Being the peacemaker, President Obama wanted to avoid any divisive issues. “Yes. I understand. Chinese food, though delicious, bothers my stomach and Michelle’s as well Congresswoman Bachmann.”

Joe Biden rose from his chair and headed toward the decanter on a table at the side of the room. “Hey, Barry, I thought it was only black guys that were late, not the Chinese. Ha. That's good one.”

The oft-amused Biden smiled and gave a self-satisfactory laugh. President Obama shook his head, grateful the press wasn’t here to catch another ‘JoeGaffee.’ Biden poured himself a glass of scotch as Obama popped a piece of Nicorette in his mouth.

“Since this meeting is 'not official,' I suppose it's all right to have a drink.” Biden cheered the room. He brought another cup over to Wisconsin Representative Paul Ryan and sat back down; the two had become close since their 2012 Vice Presidential debate and would drink over the ‘malarkey’ of the day.

Eric Cantor, next to his also-tanned counterpart Majority Leader Boehner, was fed up with the jokes. “In all seriousness, what the Chinese President is doing is a power move. It’s a psychological display of dominance. You can’t trust a communist.”

Senator Ted Cruz slammed his fist on the table. “Those commies will play mind games. I agree.”

Congresswoman Pelosi raised her hand. “Excuse me, but I’m more worried about this storm. We might be stuck here.” She gestured at the window. “This storm has gotten dangerous. I'm telling you, it's global warming. Only global warming could cause a downpour of this magnitude! My constituents are very worried about this issue and so am I.”

Democrat Senator Harry Reid and Socialist Bernie Sanders agreed but Congresswoman Bachmann and Congressman Tim Scott shook their heads in annoyance and said a silent prayer for the socialists in the room.

Other Republicans rolled their eyes at Pelosi’s statement. Libertarian-leaning Senator Rand Paul responded, “If global warming even exists, the market will fix it. What we need to worry about is the debt. The Chinese have every right to call this emergency meeting and to want their money.”

Ben Bernanke and Tim Geithner (who was called out of retirement to help out the C.T.F.) nodded in approval of Senator Paul’s market solution.

President Obama took a deep breath and offered a fake but serene glance to acknowledge Paul's statement. He put his hand up and quieted the room. “Now, now, let's not have the global warming debate right now, folks. There is talk that the Chinese are very upset about our debt and want us to pay now, which is a surprise to us all. But that is not the only reason for this emergency meeting. The NSA has heard some terrorist chatter about an attack on Annapolis that could dismantle many of our Navy’s resources. They say the Chinese might know about it. We might be in for a long night. Look, if the storm gets worse, you can sleep here; it’s a big house. We can sell to it to the press as a political sleepover. They’ll find that cute and bipartisan.”

New York Senator Schumer rubbed his temples in frustration. “Oi vey, I don’t have my Ambien.”

Senator McCaskill gave him a nice Missouri smile.

“It’s okay, Chuck. You can have some of mine. Senator Rubio, I have some bottled water if you need it, too.”

The group laughed and Senator Rubio inwardly grimaced at the overused joke but mustered a smile that only a man running for President in 2016 could pull off.

Senator McCain put down his unfinished poker game. “You pansies and your sleeping pills. When I was in Vietnam I slept on pure steel and spider shit… President Obama, sir, I’m sick of waiting for these communists. Either you call them or I will.”

President Obama saw an annoyed crowd and felt the temperature in the room rising. On days like this he was sick of being President but he knew this was not a time for self-pity. He looked out at the storm and thought of his Kenyan father herding goats in this type of downpour. His father would not have been deterred by hardships like this. The President sighed with finality. “All right, John, enough is enough. Let’s get President Xi Jinping on screen. We’ve waited long enough.”

Thursday, December 19, 2013

Quinlan Blake returned to Tir Conaill seeking peace. Not war, nor trouble, and certainly not love. Fate has its own plans though, pushing Ailyn D'Eru directly into his path. And into his arms. Despite her keen attraction to him, Ailyn has no desire for his or any hand in marriage. The search for her missing liege consumes her and embroils him. No matter how hard he works to circumvent the treachery surrounding her, he canno' sidestep destiny. Should he survive the mysterious lass, should he find a way to embrace the magick and mayhem she brings crashing upon them, he could lose his heart to her .

But most importantly, he was always there for me. If I ever went to him with a problem, he’d fix it. I wish I realized this then. If I had just told him how I felt, not only would he have told me how beautiful I was, but when he realized how sick I was he would have gotten me help. So before writing anyone out of your life permanently, remember people can’t give what they don’t have. Think why did they do or not do whatever it was that upset you so much. Were they aware they were hurting you? Was it taught or not taught to them? Be very careful. Very good people make very big mistakes.

My mother, I swear on my life, I have never known a mother who loved her children more. She would give her life for her kids. The only thing she ever wanted to be was a mother, nothing else, just a wife and mother. Like I said, my parents were young, but as we all know, no matter how old you are when you have your children, no baby comes with an instruction book. You never really know if what you are doing will help or hurt your child. It’s not taught in school, and I will never understand why. Parenting is the most important job in the world and only some schools offer “child care” or “family living” as electives. In my mind these should be mandatory, and in every school! They are just as important as math or reading—they are skills that will improve the quality of life.

I am not saying schools should replace any other classes with classes that teach parenting, or single living. I remember, my junior year I had one elective and one free period where my friends and I sat in the cafeteria and did nothing but talk and go smoke in the bathroom. Kids have lunch time and after school to spend time with their friends. We are trying to prepare them for life as an adult. I have never worked at a job where I worked a seven-hour day, had a one-hour lunch, and a forty-minute free period to sit and do nothing. Kids hate being bored; if we are trying to prevent drop outs, lose the free period and add some classes that will teach them how to live. Make mandatory classes that will show them the cost of living. Teach them if they earn three hundred dollars a week, and have a seven hundred dollar rent each month, that they will have no money for fun or clothes. Show them how much food and water and gas and electric are. That may encourage college or trade school. Kids need to have name brand clothes and shoes, and once they see that they are only going to be able to afford a thrift store wardrobe, they might think twice about dropping out.

Use sex education classes to teach the things they’ll need to know after the baby is here—it takes only five minutes to explain how a baby is made. Teach them how much diapers and formula, pediatricians, and medicine cost. Finally, we have to teach these future moms and dads how important it is to love this baby, and how to send that message of love to the baby. Remember, babies don’t understand the language, the word “love” doesn’t mean anything to them. You need to show them. Tell them that the way they look at their child or the tone of voice they use when speaking to the child is more important than what they actually say.

The one thing that is almost taboo to even say, is something I believe needs to be taught. We must teach, convince kids that having a child is not mandatory. Just because your sister and your best friend and your sister-in-law have babies doesn’t mean you have to have one. You can still stay at home and be a wife and take care of the house if finances allow it. I only say that because I have met women who got pregnant because they didn’t want to work anymore. They ended up miserable, and divorced. You will still get into heaven, or whatever the afterlife is according to your higher power. Whatever your belief system may be, if you’re a kind person, your higher power, whether it’s God, the Universe, whoever, whatever it is will smile down on you whether you decide to become a parent or not. Life is a gift we have been blessed with; we just need to do our best to enjoy it and try to leave the planet better than it was when we arrived. If a person chooses not to have children, they cannot let religion, family, guilt or society change their mind; both the child and the parents will suffer.

I think every couple, no matter what age, should get a puppy before they decide to have a baby. Then, after a year of loving their puppy and being patient with it, having potty training accidents on your bed or your couch, realizing they didn’t know better than to chew your new shoes; after a year of getting up early to walk them and feed them, and a year of rushing home from work in time to let them out and feed them; after a year of trying to get family or friends to move into your house to watch your puppy if you want to go out overnight, or away for a weekend; after you add up the cost of one year of pet food, vet appointments, leashes and toys; after all that, multiply the stress, the work and the cost by at least a hundred, then decide when to have your baby.

Author Samantha Barrett says that Memoirs of a Sex Addict was initially written to help heal herself. It is her sincere hope that it will also benefit others who have suffered as she has with Body Dysmorphic Disorder, a disorder which led directly to sex addiction and many of the reckless adventures recorded in this book. For her, BDD was a very rough ride, so some of the language and emotions in these pages are also rough. It had to be that way, she says, in order to tell the true story. The betrayals were many, including of her husbands, and there was never a shortage of men willing to take advantage of her. Even a counselor in an inpatient addiction hospital found her to be easy prey. Of course, the greatest betrayal was of herself. Some of what she did will come across as wild, reckless, even self-indulgent, but the common theme with alcohol and drug addicts is that she couldn’t stop herself.

Dr. Irvin Milowe, MD, and professor of psychiatry at the University of Miami, calls Memoirs of a Sex Addict “a very thoughtful trip into an addiction, that also shows the route out.” And while Ms. Barrett is indeed eager to help others avoid her plight, she doesn’t hide the details of her excursions.

For Samantha Barrett the journey into addiction began during her childhood, with being bullied in the home in what might seem a benign way. “The media,” she says, “has been telling us about bullies at school and on the internet, but we rarely hear of bullies living under the same roof. We assume that parents will prevent anything hurtful to their children. But what if they are not aware? What may be “harmless teasing” for one child, could be devastating to another.

A child may be hiding the pain. I was told that I was ugly, that no man would ever marry me. This led to a disease called Body Dysmorphic Disorder or BDD, a disease that distorted the way I saw myself and led me to obsess over flaws that may not have even be present. We hear tragic stories of drug and alcohol addiction. My addiction was different. Sex was my “drug of choice.” Only sex could take away my pain of feeling “ugly.” As soon as a man was on top of me or giving me attention, I felt beautiful. Often, alcohol went along with this behavior, but sex was the one I had no control over. Hopefully, the stories in this book will encourage parents, teachers and caregivers to be more aware of what is being told to or heard by their children.”

Rule #1: Try not to shoot your future wife. When special operations veteran Daniel Markis finds armed invaders in his home and it all goes sideways, he soon finds himself on the run from the shadowy Company and in possession of a genetic engineering breakthrough that might throw nations into chaos. Out of options, Daniel turns to his brothers in arms to fight back and get the answers he needs. Soon he takes possession of a secret that threatens the stability of the world, as he leads a conspiracy to change everything.

Tuesday, December 17, 2013

I wasn’t expecting to meet anyone when I arrived at Shaw University. After my last stint at love, the only thing I wanted to focus on is getting through my first semester of college without any drama. That was my intentions, until I met Shawn Walker. At first I didn’t like him. He was arrogant and cocky; someone that I could easily despised, if he wasn’t so damn sexy. But one night changed my thoughts about him. I was able to let down my guard and be myself. Now, I have a second chance at love. Will I let myself love again, or will I continue to live in the past?

Shawn:

After my last girlfriend cheated on me, love was not on my agenda. I tried to escape it at all costs, until I met Riana Robertson. After thinking she was like every other girl, I easily avoided being around her, but that night, when I saw what happened to her, I had to help her. I had to protect her. That night changed the way I felt about her and I realized I could fall hard for her. But will our relationship survive once she finds out the truth about me. Or will I lose her forever…

This story is intended for readers 17+ (adult content/language, sexual content/language).

“That’s okay. It’s only a couple miles,” I say. “Let’s talk about the evidence tomorrow.”

“I’ll go over it tonight,” he says, grinning at me.

I’m glad he’s into the techie side of the business. Going through hours of video and voice recordings bore me. Drew and I climb onto my bike. Dark clouds cover the moon, so I pedal fast to beat the rain. I should’ve accepted the ride.

We aren’t even a quarter of the way home when fat droplets splatter my arms. “Shoot.”

Drew squeezes my waist. “Get over. This SUV’s going to clip us.”

Bike reflectors are hard to see at night, so I don’t look behind me but get off the road as far as I can. The headlights shine on me and light up the road in front of me. I’m right against the curb. Surely, he sees me. The SUV slows. The engine breathes on me. I don’t look back. Why isn’t he going around? The vehicle camps on my rear fender for a minute.

“What’s he doing?” Drew asks.

“I don’t know.”

The SUV slowly comes beside me. I look into the tinted windows. I can’t see inside, but the thought of someone staring back at me sends chills along my arms.

The SUV speeds up and brushes against my left pedal. My body jumps as if I’ve been struck by a live wire. The bicycle swerves. I hit the curb and flip, which would’ve seemed graceful if it had been on purpose. My body slides against the sidewalk then onto someone’s lawn.

“I’ll survive,” I say, assessing the damage. My right knee is banged up. Shin and palm road rash. I’m shaking hard like I’m holding onto the wing of an airplane flying through a storm.

Computer? I yank it from my back pack. It’s okay. I sigh with relief.

My front handlebars are askew. Great. I’ll have to walk my bike home in the rain. Another drop hits my nose. I tighten my thin jacket and shiver from the sudden wet cold. I pick up the bike and push it while wincing with each step I take.

The driver gets out. It’s Hayden, Mr. Terminator. My knees buckle, not that they needed much encouragement. Why couldn’t it be a teacher, someone I don’t care if he sees me looking my worst? Hayden’s in jeans and a snug polo shirt and looks fabulous whereas I probably look like road kill.

“Jesus,” he says. “I saw that guy run you off the road. He was probably chatting on his cell phone.”

That could be true, but the way he slowed down still has me trembling. “Did you get his license plate?” I ask.

“Sorry. I was too far back.” Hayden walks over to me. “Are you okay? Do you want me to call an ambulance?”

That would cost money. “No. I’ll be fine.” I hobble another few steps forward, because the rain is picking up its tempo.

...and looking out on the two acres of newly planted seedlings, I feel a sense of satisfaction that only working your own land can bring. Although my back is sore and dirt cakes my fingernails, I know that the land gives back so much more than the effort I put into it. Inhaling the fragrant spring air, feeling the sun's gentle warmth, I am at peace. For tonight, my family will feast on cream of asparagus soup, an early season tossed green salad, and a crusty home-baked bread that melts on your tongue. Pair this with a bottle of local elderberry wine, and you're living the good life.

Julia closed her eyes, her fingers a hair's width from striking the laptop's keyboard. She could almost feel the sun on her cheeks, smell the freshly turned soil. It was a comfort she would often recall whenever she needed a reminder of some of the happiest moments of her life. As a child she'd spent her summer months living at her grandparents' farm in Harmony Grove, Iowa. In retrospect, those quaint, stuck-in-time summer vacations were a great way to grow up, but she couldn't be happier having moved to Chicago—or living with Nora, her best friend since they'd been paired as college roommates eight years ago.

The click of high heels brought her out of her reverie. Julia looked up to see the overly made-up face of the nail tech as she glanced at the timer and whispered, "Five more minutes." Julia nodded and looked back at her laptop screen.

She sighed, happy to have finished another weekly column. Not only was it finished, it was actually pretty darned good. Nine months of weekly columns… she never imagined it would last so long, or that she would even have enough to write about to keep it fresh and interesting. When she'd started the column as a simple blog she never thought anyone would read it. But somehow, in the mysterious workings of the internet, her little Wordpress blog had garnered a following, a following that soon outgrew the free domain world of Wordpress. Her blog, The Good Life, had been syndicated by the Chicago Herald website for six months. Her thousand loyal readers had now become ten times that amount, and growing.

She saved the file to her laptop, careful not to smudge her manicure, and then emailed a copy to her editor at the Herald.

When the timer went off, Gloria, the owner of the salon, approached with a smile and lifted the hairdryer. "How was your day of beauty?"

Julia stood up from the pedicure drying station and glanced down at her toes. "I finally look worthy of the gorgeous Jimmy Choos I bought last week. They only cost me a month's worth of columns."

"I don't know how you get any work done here with all of this racket going on."

"When I'm working on my column, I'm not really here," Julia said as she closed her computer and stowed it in her laptop bag. "I'm at the farm."

"You sure don't look like a farm girl to me."

"And thanks to all of your fabulous skills, I never will." Julia wiggled her fingernails, gleaming with fresh polish. She hadn't had her hands in freshly turned soil in many years.

"None of your readers suspect that you're really just a city girl with an active imagination?"

"No, ma'am. That's one of the reasons I keep coming back to you. Beautician-to-client confidentiality," Julia said with a wink.

"Your secrets are safe with me, girl," Gloria said as she walked Julia to the cash register. "Same time next week?"

Sunday, December 15, 2013

When Mildred and Max pulled into the driveway, Muttie bounded out the back door to greet them, and both smiled and waved to Abby as she came down the steps after the bouncing, barking dog. Max stooped down and rubbed behind Muttie’s ears before walking over to Abby’s van. He peered inside at the desk and then opened the door and climbed inside.

“I’ve made room for it in the living room, Max. Do you want a Dolley to move it? I have one in the garage.”

“Nah. Not for this.” His wide, flat fingers clamped securely around the ends of the desk, and easily, he lifted it from the van and then started for the house. Minutes later, the three of them were in Abby’s living room admiring her auction find.

“It’s just the right size,” Abby enthused, laying her hand on the smooth, inlaid wood.

“French?” Mildred asked.

“Yes. I’ll do a little research to be sure, but I’d say more neoclassical than rococo in style. The inlay and rosettes at the top of the legs suggest late 1700s or early 1800s. Also, it has straighter lines than the heavier Louis XV cabinetry. And this delicate pattern was popular in that French neoclassical period,” she said, pointing to one of the tiny basket of flowers with a ribbon trailing from it that decorated each drawer front.

Carefully she removed one of the side drawers and showed Max and Mildred the desk’s tongue-and-groove craftsmanship. She turned the drawer over and examined the bottom, her fingers tracing the wood grains. “Sometimes, these old pieces have a date or initials of the maker somewhere on them. I’ll have to examine it thoroughly for any clues to its origin. But right now, let’s see about that cup of tea I promised you both.” She slid the drawer back in place and walked toward the kitchen.

Seated in the cozy breakfast nook, the trio breathed in the aromas from a steaming pot of tea and a plate of homemade scones on the table before them.

“My favorites,” Mildred said helping herself to one of the small blueberry muffins before passing them to Max.

“Your recipe. I can’t take the credit,” Abby said, laughing. “Just another of the many good things you’ve brought to me.” She beamed at the older woman affectionately. “English breakfast tea and scones—both have become an important part of my life.”

Max settled back, easing his large frame away from the small table. “Nice, nice, I’d say, whoever’s recipe it is. You plannin’ on comin’ into the shop later this afternoon?”

“Yes. I want to adjust the pricing on a few items. I got some ideas from that auction, and I think my Haviland china pieces are marked wrong. Also, I’d like to make some changes in our window display if you two can spare the time to help me.”

Their conversation flowed easily as they discussed ideas for marketing and some of Abby’s new orders from customers. Almost an hour later, the three of them finally left for the shop.

Located across town, Abby’s Antiques and Collectibles was in the middle of the main block in newly restored Old Town Westfield. Wide, paned windows across the front and Tudor-style wood siding gave it the feel of a country English china shop. The printing on the sign over the door was in old-world script, and Abby had added window boxes filled with colorful flowers by the entrance. A bell tinkled over the doorway when it was opened, and the soft sounds of classical music always floated out to greet customers. The shop’s interior was elegant but warmly inviting, and on many days, Abby offered English tea and freshly baked scones to visitors.

This afternoon, Abby was studying the shop’s front window display with a critical eye. “I want to capture more of a European look. That lovely French tapestry we got in yesterday with its subtle shades of rose and soft greens would be a perfect backdrop for these antique books and porcelains. Don’t you think so, Mildred?”

Mildred cocked her head to one side, appraised the space, and then nodded. “Some rich, brocaded fabric draped over that small gilt-framed chair in the corner might add another tad of color,” she suggested.

The two women worked together arranging the smaller pieces in the window while Max hung the tapestry and carried the larger items for display from the back of the shop. “That ornate, bronze candelabra—put it just there next to the Waterford crystal bowl, Mildred. And let’s hang some gold tassels from the corners of that tapestry. That’s it. Perfect.” Abby smiled as she stepped back to survey their work.

“It looks good to me,” a deep, resonant voice from behind her said.

She whirled around and found herself staring up at Nathan Edwards for the second time that day. He was standing on the edge of the sidewalk, rocking back on his heels as he studied the window. “Didn’t know if I’d find anyone around,” he told her. “But I thought I’d at least locate your shop, even if I had to make another trip.” He smiled broadly at her.

“Are you always such an impulsive shopper?” Abby laughed.

“Impulsive, yes. Shopper, no. But I do need a desk, and you said you have one for sale. One shop, one desk—my kind of deal.”

“Ah yes, that’s what you came to see. I did mention the two I have here in the shop.” She opened the door and the bell tinkled as she ushered him inside, calling over her shoulder to Mildred and Max, “Just be a minute.”

Nathan commented on some of the furniture and collections displayed throughout as he followed her to the back of the shop. “You have some exceptional things. I’m not an expert, but even an amateur collector like me can see that.”

“You’re a collector? Paintings, furniture?”

“Mostly furniture. I restore old pieces in my spare time. Made a few reproductions for friends. It kinda fits with my job.”

“Oh, that should be interesting, especially around here. There’s a lot of history in this area.” She stopped in front of a large, polished, mahogany desk. “Here, this is one of the pieces I wanted to show you.”

He ran his hand over the smooth leather inset in the desk’s top and then opened each of the drawers. “Good. It has a file drawer and plenty of leg room.” He stood back, admiring the piece. “I’ll take it.”

“But we haven’t discussed price,” she protested.

“Like I said, I’m not much of a shopper.”

“Right. I remember. Impulsive, yes. Shopper, no.” They both laughed. “I’d have to agree with your self-analysis, but I still better tell you the price before you really decide.”

He nodded, and when she quoted a figure to him, he produced a checkbook, wrote out a draft, and handed it to her.

“Impulsive, yes. Shopper, no,” she said again, laughing as she looked at the check he had handed to her. “No bargaining?”

“No point in wasting time. I know what I want when I see it.” He flashed a boyish grin.

“Well, you certainly seem to. Do you have a way to transport it?”

“Truck’s out front. If you have somebody here to help me load, I can handle it myself on the other end.”

“Max is helping me with the new window display. He’ll be glad to lend a hand. Just pull your truck around into the alley back here.” Abby opened the shop’s wide double doors that faced onto a small, concrete platform with a ramp leading down to a narrow, gravel drive.

Nathan backed his dark blue pickup into the alley. When he hopped out, Max was already standing by the desk with pieces of cord in his hands. “I’ll run this here cord through the drawer pulls and tie ’em down tight so they won’t be bangin’ while you’re drivin’.”

“Thanks,” Nathan said, producing a couple of tarps from the cab. When the two men had the desk loaded, Nathan covered it carefully. “There. That oughta do it. Don’t want any scratches on that beautiful finish.” He turned to Abby. “Did you get your desk home?”

She nodded. “Thanks to Max. He helped me get it into the house. It fits in perfectly. I really love it.”

“Nice piece, and I think you got a good buy.”

“I know I did. I may want to do a little restoration on it. I really haven’t had a chance to look it over carefully yet.”

“Well. If you need any help, let me know. It’s my hobby, and I’d be glad to offer my assistance with that or any other pieces,” he said, glancing toward the interior of the shop. “Now I better get this desk of mine home. Thanks again. I know I’m going to like it.”

Abby watched him climb into the truck and pull out of the alley. Before turning into the main street, he slowed, looked back, and waved. She was still standing on the ramp watching as the truck disappeared around the corner.